


At the Other End of the Leash

by dorking



Series: An Entertaining Diversion [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon Divergence, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Forced Relationship, Humiliation, M/M, Peter uses Martin to get off on his loneliness, Unrequited Love, no actual leashes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:53:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25775425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorking/pseuds/dorking
Summary: Peter decides to give Martin a gift, for a small price.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Peter Lukas
Series: An Entertaining Diversion [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1869895
Comments: 5
Kudos: 28





	At the Other End of the Leash

**Author's Note:**

> ya boi is back! Honestly I kind of forgot to put this in the previous fic so I've fleshed it out a bit more but it's still kind of short...and like welcome to AO3 where series are made up and chapters don't matter. Peter is still an absolute dickhead. Title from the paper chase song.

Door knob cold, unlocked, turn to go inside.

Hallway, gloves and shoes off.

Toilet first, take a leak, wash up.

Kitchen next, a shot of whiskey to get warm.

Martin can sense the waltz of routine pacing downstairs. His stomach flips and twists into nervous knots, not entirely unpleasant. He can't recall the last time Peter was home. But time here, in Peter's house - _their house now -_ passes so strangely. Every painted wall is a slow shifting eggshell-white cast with somber shadow, blue and grey shivering in through leaves outside, porous colours enveloping Martin within their layers. He finds himself inside of them like a white blood cell pulsing through a vein, readied to battle any intrusion on this lonely castle. Martin knows that Peter can feel him here too, connected by mutual distance fine as fishing wire.

Martin wants to see Peter.

Martin doesn't want to see Peter.

It's a dull battle of Martin's sorely contrarian will. Sat alone in his study, Martin glances at the time displayed in the corner of his laptop - 5:03 pm, the end of his work day. Peter - _my husband_ \- as Martin reminds himself so often, also his boss, has him working from home in relative isolation. It's not as though Martin has been outright prohibited from leaving, but as the days rolled by on his lonesome he found that he had nowhere to go. Outside offered barren cliffs of nothingness and nobody. No one to see, well not exactly, save for seldom excursions to the hospital in order to ritually replace wilted and unwatered flowers. Martin cried about it for so many countless - _endless, Christ -_ nights. His reality peeling him all red raw, agonizing layer by agonizing layer at two or three am, hours bleeding out into unbaked mornings. However, despite the misery, his suffering granted him power. If he ever did find himself wandering beyond the estate, on foot since he didn't drive, Martin would pass through the world as a shade. Intentionally this time, somehow beyond Peter's initial and terrible deceptions.

 _Liar_. _He's a goddamn liar._

Inside his heart, Martin admits he still does not entirely _hate_ Peter.

_I mean, I can't, can I?_

Martin shuts his computer as the door opens, only one knock to signify the entrance of Peter Lukas - current head of the Magnus Institute - who strides forward, leaning down and cupping Martin's cheek with insistence so he can drink unsolicited kisses from a conflicted and pliant mouth.

"Ah love, beacon light, mine. Martin, Martin," Peter croons smiling heartless and empty - _empty, empty, empty_ -, tendered words punctuated by whiskey chapped lips and grey beard bristle. His frozen fingers brush Martin's neck, palm only warming when it rests at the nape. 

"Welcome back, Peter, welcome home," Martin forgives in a rushed sigh that passes from one mouth into the other.

Kissing is nice, and Peter does give such deliberately knitted kisses, stitched and laced with rough touches, rosy stains blooming when skin brushes skin. The contact is everything Martin's body craves without his conscious consent. Whenever Peter does find his way back sometimes that's all they do. Peter will hold Martin quietly on their bed until his breathing evens out and he sleeps. Other times it's just sex, Peter fucking Martin until he has what he wants. Either way, Peter is always gone in the morning, for days, weeks, who knows. Martin doesn't.

"I have something for you, two things I suppose, actually," Peter pulls away and studies Martin's flushed cheeks, pink from their tentative proximity. It does arouse Peter to see how easy Martin is for him now, trained and aching for a body close and closer. They attract like two magnets finally matched properly. It's all a game of desperation, how long they can stand to withhold themselves, until they gravitate back into each others arms to share the nature of their solitary souls. Martin meeting Peter, Peter meeting Martin. 

"Oh," Martin swallows his reluctance down like a thick liquid, his shoulders tensing. He looks up into Peter's eyes, distant and brisk blue with pupils dark enough to drown him. Those eyes, always hungry and never satiated in their cruelty, demanding more and more until he does. Martin _does_ drown in them. He'll give Peter anything if it means he'll be known, anything to be gazed upon and softly spoken to with false affection, "Well, what do you have?" Martin finally asks.

Peter chuckles, wicked laughter never reaching beyond his teeth as he licks his lips, "Quid pro quo, Martin," Peter slides his heavy hand to Martin's shoulder.

_Of course._

Martin cannot stop his mouth trembling open, a thousand words boiling but bursting on the tip of his tongue "...h-how would you like me, then? On the bed?"

"Not this evening, no."

Peter squeezes and pushes his hand down on Martin, who obediently responds by sliding out of his chair, his knees hitting the carpet in a muted fall. Peter's face is beatific.

"Good lad."

Martin inhales sharply and blushes at the compliment "Yeah, yeah," he mutters, running his hands up Peter's crisply pressed slacks and groping his muscular thighs through the fabric. Martin can't deny that they're enticing, that Peter has a great body for someone his age. Pressing his face into the zip and closing his eyes, Martin nuzzles there as he releases Peter's belt, which opens and slithers to the side. He pops the button next and pulls the zip down with his teeth, the tangy metal tasting bitter. Martin takes in a deep appreciative breath of Peter's musk as he caresses his cock with his cheek. It's at once familiar and forgotten, a memory that could, that _should_ , be a dream. Martin mouths the bulging fabric of Peter's shorts, his tongue hot as it teases Peter to half-hardness. Peter's hand is carding through Martin's hair now, patting and stroking his head, groans quiet in their escape as Martin makes contact with his groin. When Martin finally pulls it out, Peter smiles resplendent, watching how Martin feeds his cock into his open mouth, sucking it down hungrily.

"Greedy thing, eager tonight Martin?" Peter hums, swelling thick and fully hard beyond Martin's lips.

Martin glances up, eyes hooded with lust, and grabs Peter's ass so he can knead, grope, grasp, and push it forward to get Peter deeper inside. Spit is beginning to dribble down Martin's chin, but he pays no mind. Instead he sloppily maps Peter's cock with the flat of his tongue, angling the head against his palate and rutting it there. Martin moans around Peter's skin. _Yes_ , he supposes, _I am eager_. He would be enthusiastic to do anything that takes his mind away for a while. He really doesn't care if that means fellating his neglectful husband, boss, _whatever_. At least like this he can pretend for a moment that he is less alone. He can pretend that he is with someone else - _don't think his name-_ somewhere else. They are shameful thoughts but that doesn't stop Martin from sucking harder, sucking quicker, with Peter breathing shallow above him, colour high in his face for once.

_Shameful, shameless. It doesn't matter, not here, not like this._

"Jesus, what's gotten into you Martin?" Peter probes, his voice husky and low.

Martin pulls off drooling to catch his breath, "Is that a complaint?" he asks before placing filthy wet kisses up Peter's shaft. Peter's hands pull tighter on Martin's hair, "Not at all love. Never, never."

Martin takes Peter back in his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut and holding his breath as the tip of Peter's cock hits the back of his throat. It's the only thing he can do to stop himself from gagging, but he wants it - _deeper, deeper, deeper_. At last Martin is able to push his nose into the greying shock of hair below Peter's navel as he takes his cock in whole, to the very root. Peter nearly doubles over, his abdomen trembling and taut.

"God - Christ, Martin, good, so good," Peter praises, letting out a stifled noise of appreciation. Martin pulls back and ducks forward, his mouth sliding in slick motions up and down, breath hitching as Peter's crown pokes inside him again and again and again. Peter is content to let Martin lead like this for a moment, but he is losing composure quickly as his climax approaches and he has another plan, one that is much more satisfying. For both of them.

Yanking on Martin's hair and pulling him off as he yelps from pain, Peter forcefully tilts Martin's head and gazes down at his husband, taking his spit-drenched cock in his hand. Peter gives himself a few nimble strokes, "You're thinking of him, aren't you, Martin?" he asks drunkenly gleeful, teasing and unkind. Martin grits his teeth "No, I-"

"Don't lie, Martin. Come on now, let's not be shy," Peter shudders, voracious with desire "Say his name."

"No, please."

"Say it, or this goes on your face." 

Martin grimaces tight-lipped in defeat, "Fine. Fine," he pants reluctantly, opening once again for Peter.

Peter grins wide, shoving the swollen head of his cock into the wet pocket of Martin's cheek, and jerking himself to completion as Martin sinfully moans through his teeth -

_"Jon, Jon, Jon."_

Peter spills himself all inside to that name, and Martin does his best to swallow dutifully, but he can't help choking and coughing when Peter's cum is ingested the wrong way. Inevitably some leaks to Martin's chin in creamy rivulets. His face is burning infernally, like the dam to his secret was broken by fresh magma.

_To desire without being desired - Shameful. Lonely._

Peter unceremoniously plucks himself out and tucks his wilting cock back into his trousers, his breath coming in short rough gasps. "Good lad," he murmurs condescending while patting Martin blunt on the cheek, causing the younger man to sputter on his semen once again. Martin does not stand up, but instead crumples shaking and sinking back onto his ankles, head down and humiliated. He wipes his face with his sleeve and sniffles, pain stinging all the way up his nostrils. At least he is not crying, but - _dammit that_ _hurt_.

In a swift and unexpected gesture, Peter drops on one knee in front of Martin, nearly level. "Here," Peter hums small and thoughtful, taking Martin's limp left hand in his own, sliding Martin's wedding band off in a smooth motion. Martin looks up in confusion, only to immediately look back down when something cool and weighted pours into his palm. His wedding ring returned, leashed on a beautiful latticed gold chain. He raises an eyebrow at Peter.

"The first gift, I didn't think you'd want people talking," Peter offers.

"What?" Martin asks, obviously incredulous. He wants to add, _the fuck_ , but the words don't make it out.

Peter stands to tower over Martin, his hands finding their way onto his hips "I've just been thinking, you'll probably be of more use to me, to _us_ , if you return to the Institute...especially, well..." he trails off, aloof as he peers out the study window into the purple creeping dusk. Martin unthinkingly laces the chain around his neck. Peter smiles to himself, victorious, and looks below at Martin still on his knees.

"Some news, Martin. Your little Archivist has pulled through. Against all odds, of course."

"...What?" Martin asks again, whisper shocked, dreadful and so human as he is. Horror starts to dawn on his face in response to the revelation, what he's - _they've_ \- just done. The act of chanting a name that does not belong to him. To them. Martin could vomit.

"The Archivist, Jon. Jonathan Sims, yeah? He's awake from his coma and alive, somehow," Peter explains, his light tone flippant but edging on irritation, as he turns and meanders to the door, "Naturally you'll have to avoid him when you go back to London, but I'm confident you'll keep to my rules, won't you, Martin? After all this...mess?" he says nodding back towards Martin's disheveled state.

Martin is silent and gaping, no words able to define his disgrace.

Checking his watch, "Would you like to get dinner?" Peter asks amiably.

Martin shakes his head, distraught. "No? Suppose you're full, hah. Alright, see you at work then," Peter shrugs and leaves without closing the door or saying goodbye, his footsteps faint in the hall as he walks away.

Martin is left alone once again, his ring hanging heavy on his collar.


End file.
